“I suppose the top and bottom of it is,” said Banks, “that while they’re not easy to get, and they can be expensive, they’re a hell of a lot easier to get your hands on than a regular handgun.” He looked at Gerry. “Again, it looks as if you’re going to have to do a bit of tracking down here. Purchases. Thefts. The usual suspects. And I think first of all you should see if you can find out whether there have been any crimes with a similar MO in the last couple of years. Start locally, then move out to the rest of the country.”
Gerry nodded.
“And we need to have a close look at the abattoir business in these parts,” Banks said. “Everyone knows illegal and unregulated abattoirs exist, along with legitimate establishments, and they can take many shapes and sizes. It’s true that the prime season for stealing lambs is August, when they’re nice and plump and ready to eat, but someone has been picking off the odd field of sheep or cows around the dale for a while now, and I doubt they’ve all been shipped to Romania or Bulgaria, no matter what the Daily Mail would have us believe. Cattle are especially difficult to sell, as they have electronic ID tags and passports, whereas sheep only have easily removable ear tags. But if your intention is to get the animal cut up as soon as possible and sell it locally, off the back of a lorry, none of that matters too much. There’s a big enough market at home for a bit of cheap meat, no questions asked.” Banks turned to Annie: “Maybe you and Doug can start checking out the local abattoirs tomorrow? We want any hints of illegal operations, any objects stolen, especially bolt pistols, any disgruntled employees recently fired and maybe setting up on their own, that sort of thing.”
“But I’m a vegetarian,” protested Annie. “Yuck.”
“I know,” said Banks. “It’s a dirty job, but . . .”
Annie pulled a face, and the others laughed, then there was a tap at the door followed by Vic Manson, a buff folder in his hand. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “We’ve got a result.”
WHEN TERRY Gilchrist opened the door, he looked surprised to see Winsome again. “DS Jackman,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Please. Take your coat off.” She hung up her coat on a hook in the hall and followed him through to the living room. He was walking without his stick, but he seemed able to manage all right unaided, though she noticed that he rested his hand on the back of the sofa to hold himself up for a moment when he got to the living room, and she thought she saw a grimace of pain flash across his features.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine. Just the occasional twinge. The doc said I’d get them for a while.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. It’s been one of those days.”
“Then sit down. Take the weight off.”
Winsome sat and smoothed her skirt. It was a chilly evening, with a brisk cold wind gusting outside, and Gilchrist had a wood fire burning in the fireplace. Peaches lay stretched out asleep in front of it. Winsome felt the warmth permeate and envelop her. “That’s nice,” she said, reaching out her hands to feel the heat.
“One of life’s little luxuries. And you can see Peaches loves it. Drink?”
“Not for me, thanks. I’m driving.”
“Tea, then? Or I can offer you a cappuccino.”
“That’d be lovely, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
The room seemed different after dark. Perhaps it was the wood fire. Winsome absorbed the warmth and the sound of crackling logs as she listened to the hissing and grinding of what sounded like an espresso machine. Peaches was still breathing slowly and peacefully in front of the fire. She stirred and growled once, as if disturbed by a dream, then stuck out her tongue and settled back down again. Soon Gilchrist was back with two cappuccinos. He handed one to Winsome.
“Another of life’s little luxuries?”
“The espresso machine? Rather a large luxury, I’d say. Actually,” he went on, “you’re lucky to catch me in. It’s trivia night at the Coach and Horses tonight. Highlight of my week, usually.”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
“Sorry. I really do enjoy it, though. The trivia, I mean, not the cynicism. We used to play it on the base.”
“I almost signed up once,” Winsome said after a pause.
“For trivia? You?”
“No. The armed forces. Why not? I’m fit. And it’s in the family, like policing. My grandfather fought in the Second World War. I was a bit more mercenary. I thought I might at least get an education out of it later, if I survived. Maybe IT, or office administration, something like that.”
“Dream on,” said Gilchrist. “They were going to send me to university after my spell. Middle Eastern languages. I showed a bit of aptitude in the field, and they can always use someone who speaks the lingo.”
“What happened?”
“Canceled. Decided to send me out there again instead.” He tapped his leg. “Hence this. I suppose they thought I was a better soldier than a linguist.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I’m out for good. I might actually go to university. I’m still considering my options, as they say.”
Winsome had read Gerry’s report after the meeting, and she knew how Gilchrist had been injured while getting his comrades and some children out of a booby-trapped school before a second bomb went off. The Military Cross and an honorable discharge. There was no reason to mention it now and embarrass him. One thing she did know was that soldiers didn’t like to talk about their wars.
“I don’t suppose you came here to talk about my war wounds,” he said.
“No. I was just wondering if you remembered anything more about Monday morning.”
Gilchrist rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about it since the last time we talked, and I’ve been keeping up with the news. Did the victim really end up at the bottom of Belderfell Pass in pieces, or am I reading too much into the reports?”
“Yes, he did. But he was in pieces before that. How did you know it was him?”
“Is this where you do your detective thing? Tell me I couldn’t have known unless I’d done it?”
Winsome laughed. “Good Lord, no. I don’t think you did it. At least I hope you didn’t.”
“Well I’m grateful for that. Actually, it’s elementary, my dear Jackman. It’s just the odds. I’ve lived around these parts long enough to know that you don’t get a pool of blood in a disused hangar and human body parts in a fallen stock lorry without some sort of connection. Stands to reason.” Gilchrist shook his head slowly. “Just when you think you’ve got as far away as you possibly can from all that sort of thing. The only other thing I remember is the car.”
“What car?”
“It was on Sunday morning, the day before I found the blood. I was just coming back from the newsagent’s in the village with the papers, about a quarter to ten or so, and I heard a car pass by on that road just beyond the trees, heading toward the Thirsk road. I noticed because it seemed to be going unusually fast and you almost never see cars on that road. It’s not very easy on the shock absorbers.”
“You’re sure it was a car, not a lorry or a van?”
“Yes, it was a car. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what make, though. I’m not that good. And I didn’t see it, really, just a flash of dull gray through the trees.”
“Gray?”
“Yes. But not silvery. More a sort of dirty gray. It didn’t sound too healthy, either, not at the speed it was going. I could tell that much at least.”
Michael Lane, Winsome thought. Or whoever was driving his car if he had taken Spencer’s lorry. But she didn’t think he had. Fullerton had seemed pretty sure about the muttonchops and flat hat, and unless Lane was wearing a disguise, which Winsome doubted, then it probably wasn’t him. The timing was right. He wouldn’t have been worried about his shock absorbers if he thought he was fleeing for his life. Or if he had just shot someone. “Which way was it going?” she asked.
“Drewick direction. If it kept going straight on, it would have ended up on the moors. But there’s the Thirsk road. It might have turned on there and joined up with the A1.”